


Fine Print

by orphan_account



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Demons being Creepy, M/M, Manipulation, Obsession, POV Second Person, will add more as story progresses - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-18 09:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4700399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bill can't seem to keep his mind off Dipper, and while the kid is rather entertaining to just think about, he's finding he wants something... more. </p>
<p>Rating may change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You watch. There's images of you all over his house and the kid doodles often enough, so for now, you just watch. And that's enough. 

You might have a little bit of an obsession. You get those a lot. Probably a virus of some sort, it'll just go away in about a week if you wait. 

Except it doesn't. And watching isn't enough. You don't remember much about the last time you were this lovesick for a human. You also don't remember much about what that word means, lovesick, but you didn't forget, you just didn't care enough to remember. 

But this sort of obsession happens sometimes, you know that and so does everyone else. 

You just need to get him to trust you. 

Okay. Piece of cake. 

You'll think of something. 

But for now, you content yourself with watching. And waiting. And maybe a little bit of fantasising about what you'll do with him once he trusts you. 

You can hardly wait.


	2. Chapter 2

It's almost three am and your (you love the way that sounds in your mind) little human still isn't asleep. Weird. You check in at the windows, trying to figure out _why_ he's not in bed. 

And then you feel him slowly start slipping into dreamland. It's almost unsettling how attuned you've become to him in so little time. That matters little. You're pissed, and on an impulse you decide to drop in for a visit. 

"What took you so long, Pine Tree? Last time I checked you're way too young to be getting any."  
"What!? Bill, get out of my head!" You snap your fingers, and disappear, putting a tiny fraction of your concentration into letting your cackle slowly fade out, and letting the rest sort through your memories, deciding which ones you want to leak through to the kid. 

You eventually decide to fabricate a different beginning for yourself, one that'll make him feel at the very least conflicted, and if you're lucky, a little bit sorry for you. 

You show him a yellow-haired boy, about five or six, swinging from a rope in the rain, which is tied to one branch of a rather large tree. The wind is swift, the child is light, the branch sticks out just so, and in the next image the child wears an eyepatch over the place where one of his eyes would be. 

You show Dipper two adults who could only be the boy's parents, worrying, watching the sky intently, tucking a blanket around him (you give it the same brick pattern that's on you) and eventually telling him to get under the bed. 

When the boy emerges, everything around him is smashed to pieces. 

Including his parents. You show Dipper the gory details, everything you would have seen if it were actually one of your memories. 

You paint a picture for him, one of a beautiful descent into madness, of being pressured to be good enough, of being willing to sacrifice anything to please the people around you. Even if the thing you were sacrificing technically wasn't yours. 

And she wasn't. The girl who didn't exist didn't belong to the you you're making up stories about, she didn't belong to anyone. 

You weave a tapestry of an enchanting downward spiral into loneliness, one of trusting someone untrustworthy and having to watch someone else pay the price, of losing everything you thought was true about yourself, of losing your mind and your convictions until you were just a sadness stuck in a body, and then losing that too as you faded and faded and faded and faded and suddenly ignited. 

You let him feel the full force of the young Bill Cipher's anger, because only by doing so can you be sure he'll also feel your initial pain and confusion at what the fuck was happening. 

You show him all the cities you burned, all the deals you struck, twisting the memories to tell a story of a young demon, practically a child, who didn't know how to control his power and just wanted to go back. 

Back to normal. 

You show him everything, still telling lies of omission, but this time giving him enough pieces to form a coherent story, and you end with the words,  
"I was backed into a corner, Pine Tree."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dipper's POV

You wake up with a pounding headache and a conflict in your chest. The light streaming in from the window (through Bill) shines in your eyes and makes the area behind them hurt. Mabel’s bed is empty, and you hear vague kitcheney noises from downstairs. 

Frick. You yawn, and rub the sleep from your eyes as you grudgingly accept the fact that you’re awake. At least Mabel didn’t make you get up at the same time she did... Hmm. That’s strange.

Oh well. It’s too early in the morning to be thinking about this. Or anything, really.

You stretch out on your bed, trying to put everything off as much as possible. Your face feels clogged up, and as you rub at your nose you realise the feeling isn’t in your face, but in your brain, like someone poured sand into the gas tank of a car and now it’s all scratched up and clogged. You can’t think. 

The last time you felt this way was in the aftermath of Mabel’s puppet show, but instead of being concentrated in your mind, the feeling was all over your body. You figure Bill is like sand, abrasive and heavy; his presence takes forever to truly be gone, like there’s residue from his self all over everything. If you try to sweep, it’ll just get stuck all over the broom. Nothing short of a flood could wash him away completely. 

You hate this. Not being able to think right is infinitely worse than not being able to move. Not being able to count on your mind leaves you feeling vulnerable, useless. Like you’ve lost an entire piece of your perception; you can still function, but your world lacks depth. Like you’ve lost an eye. 

You see the branch in your mind’s eye. You see the child swinging, the way his eyes widen just before one of them stops seeing. You hear the way he screams, the pain, the fear, and even though it’s warm and you feel the sunlight from Bill’s window on your skin, you shiver. 

You roll over, and realised you must have misjudged the distance between you and the edge of the bed, because you’re falling for just a moment-- there’s barely enough time for your eyes to widen almost comically-- and then the floor slams into your face, and your headache gets a hell of a lot worse. You get up too quickly, and a blue curtain falls over your vision as you stumble, dizzy, and then find yourself on your back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, and the back of your head hurts. 

You’re more careful getting up this time, and there’s a scary moment where your sense of balance flakes out on you and you almost fall over, but this time you catch yourself on the bed instead of the floor. Yeah, eating something would probably be a good idea right about now. 

You sigh, and lean heavily on the wall by your door. You know you need to think about everything Bill showed you, but your thoughts are sluggish, your head hurts, and you just don’t want to think about it right now. You blink, and realise you’ve been zoned out staring at the window-Bill. Mabel would probably figure out some ridiculous combination of the two words, but you aren’t Mabel.

You traipse down the stairs, and do a double take when you see Ford making bacon on the stove. Oh, right. You mutter a greeting to Mabel as you sit down across from her, and then rest your head on your arms. That bacon smells good. You’re glad you didn’t miss breakfast. 

…

Someone’s poking your shoulder. You open one eye and lift your head up just enough to see who it is, and Ford’s face falls into focus as he puts a BLT in front of you. Apparently you did miss breakfast.   
“How did you sleep, kid?” You shrug, and mutter an adjective where you should have used an adverb. You clear your throat, and try to sit up straight and make your eyelids stop drooping.   
“I mean, horribly.” He grins, and pushes the plate towards you.   
“I can make you some MabelJuice™.” You quickly shake your head at Mabel, take the knife that Ford hands you, and cut your sandwich into four squares. “Why not triangles this time, bro-bro?” You shrug, and noncommittally mutter an excuse as you pick up a piece of your sandwich and bite into it. It’s delicious, and gone before you’re ready to stop having the taste of it in your mouth. You sigh, and brush the crumbs off your shirt as you notice that Mabel and Ford both haven’t finished their sandwiches yet.  
“There’s more bacon on the counter if you want it. Just leave some for Stanley.” You smile, and the way it stretches your face feels funny because you’re so tired.  
“Thanks, Uncle Ford!” You get up, feeling exponentially better as you snag three strips of bacon of the plate. Still not perfect, still quite conflicted, but better. 

...

The day drags by, and by the time you finally decide to go to bed you’re yawning every couple of seconds. You somehow make it up to your room and collapse onto your bed, and you yawn yet another time before falling asleep.


End file.
